Columns

The universe tosses its horns, each hoof
clattering comets, new dimensions. White-
rimmed nebulae snort and champ. I am both
here and not yet. A flocking of stars, a
molecular burnish. A far-flung door sucks
back curtains. I pull the corolla round,
threading black holes as light breaks,
shushing, on sky shingles. Geometries cavort
along axes. What the final form? Take each
from me like a cat’s cradle. Keep it taut, the
better to balance on threads.